Avoiding the ubiquitous adobe tones, the Boyds had painted the house a clean white with startling blue trim. The red-metal pitched roof would simmer most of the time, but the wind wouldn’t rip it off and the sun wouldn’t blister it to bits. One vehicle, a white-and-blue pickup truck, was parked in the yard.
“The welcoming committee,” I said as the first wave of dogs emerged from the various shadows around the house. Two heelers led the pack, followed by a black-and-white, one-eyed something and-looking incongruous out here in the middle of the cacti and cattle-two German shepherds, tongues lolling dangerously toward beckoning cactus thorns.
“You get out first,” I said gallantly. One of the heelers jumped up and put its grimy paws on the door. I could imagine its sharp claws tearing scratches across the expensive county decal. With good sense, Estelle hesitated. All the tails were wagging, so we were probably safe.
A lanky, stooped individual appeared on the front porch, whistled sharply, and the dogs retreated without a backward glance. He waved a beckoning hand at us in greeting.
We got out of the car, and the breeze was brisk and warm, enough to suck the moisture right out of a dog’s nose in the brief seconds between tongue swipes.
“Good morning,” the man said and stepped off the porch. One of the heelers advanced a pace or two behind him, and the man turned and muttered something. The dog retreated back into the shade. One of the shepherds emerged to circle around us, nose down and ears akimbo.
“Don’t worry about him none,” the man said. “He’s too gaddam dumb to figure out what to do.” He extended a hand to me. “Name’s Edwin Boyd. You’re Undersheriff Gastner, if I remember right.”
“Good to see you,” I said. I couldn’t remember ever actually meeting Edwin Boyd before, beyond a quick glimpse in a grocery-store parking lot at one time or another. He was taller than his brother, just as lanky, clean-shaven, and leathery-skinned. He wore a cap that had collected enough diesel fuel and grease and dust to disguise the logo above the bill. “This is Detective Estelle Reyes-Guzman.”
Edwin Boyd’s eyes twinkled as he extended a hand to Estelle. “Certainly a pleasure to meet you,” he said and touched the bill of his cap with his free hand. “We got us plenty of activity today, haven’t we?” He spoke with great care, as if feeling the need to be mindful of what he said.
“Yes, sir,” I said. “We wanted to break away for a bit and talk to you folks, if we can. Away from the hustle and bustle.” I smiled ruefully. “Away from all the feds.”
“You got that right,” Edwin said. “I took a drive this morning out to just west of where they’re parked. Haven’t seen so many black jackets in some time.” He gestured toward the house. “Come on in, then. You figure they got everything they need to do the job?”
“I expect so,” I said. “If not, you can bet they’ll sure as hell ask in a hurry.”
“ ’Spect so,” he nodded, and closed the door. The house was quiet and dark. “How about some coffee?”
“That’d be nice,” I said.
“Let me put some on. It won’t take but a minute.”
I looked up at the heavy beams that supported the painted ceiling boards. The logs were glossy with varnish but looked old and worn smooth. “The pitched room was added later, I bet,” I said to Estelle. “I wonder when this place was built.”
“The fireplace was put in during the fall of nineteen fifty-two,” she said, pointing at the scratched date just below the mantelpiece. “So before that.”
She moved over and looked through the glass doors of an elaborate gun cabinet. I joined her. The muzzles of more than a dozen rifles and shotguns gleamed from inside.
“That’s interesting,” she said, her gaze intent on the first three guns in the row. I recognized the M-1 Garand that stood in the number-one slot, its bayonet lug looking clumsy and angular in comparison with the slender barrels of the various sporting arms.
“I used to shoulder one of those,” I said. “Worth some money now.”
“And thirty-ought-six is a good, all-around caliber for ranch work,” Estelle added. “And a modern version,” she added, indicating the third gun in line. “Recognize it?”
The rifle was black, with lots of sharp corners and doo dads, including a long, heavy clip that hung down just in front of the trigger guard. “Maybe a Heckler and Koch. I don’t know. I haven’t kept up with that stuff.”
“It looks to be the same size bore as the ought-six,” Estelle said. “If it’s foreign, it might be the NATO round. Three-oh-eight.”
“You interested in hardware?” Edwin Boyd asked. I half turned, startled. I hadn’t heard him return from the kitchen.
“It’s all kind of neat,” I said and pointed at the assault rifle. “What’s that thing?”
Edwin peered through the glass as if he were looking at the collection for the first time. He reached out and turned the small key that was in the lock, then opened the door.
“Oh, that’s the boy’s. Some damn thing.” He hefted the rifle out of the case. “Some foreign thing. But I tell you what, it’s hell on wheels. Accurate as I’ve ever seen and spits ’em out just like that.” He handed me the rifle. I was surprised at its weight.
“Quite a piece,” I said and popped the clip. The brass of the loaded rounds gleamed in sharp contrast to the black metal of the weapon. “Whoops,” I said.
“Oh, I doubt that there’s one in the chamber,” Edwin said, unperturbed. I pulled back the bolt, stiff against the recoil spring. He was right.
“He’s at school in Cruces,” Edwin volunteered. “I don’t guess he has much need of that on campus, even though I hear things get wild there once in a while.”
“What is this, a twenty-round clip?” I said, turning the clip this way and that.
“Don’t know,” Edwin said. “I never checked. ’Course, I don’t have much use for something like that.”
I handed the rifle to Estelle and held the clip so that what window light there was played on the cartridges. I could see the pointed noses of only three rounds, and I thumbed them out into my left hand. Sure enough, three was the magic number. “Really slick,” I said and pushed the ammo back into the clip. “But you know, I was in the Marines, and that old M-1 is more my style.” I handed the clip to Estelle. “You mind?”
“Have at it,” Edwin said. He reached across and hefted the Garand by the barrel, handing it to me.
“Replacing these with the M-l6 was a mistake,” I said, running a hand up the long wooden stock.
“Wouldn’t know,” Edwin chuckled. “I did me some time in the Navy and spent most of it up close and personal with a paring knife. Still can’t look a potato in the eye.” He chuckled again.
I pulled back the bolt of the Garand, and sure enough, its magazine was full. I pressed the top cartridge down and eased the bolt forward so that the round wasn’t stripped off the clip and into the chamber. “Nice piece,” I said and returned it to the rack.
“Let me check that coffee. You take anything in it?”
“Nope,” I said. “And the detective doesn’t drink the stuff, so it’s just you and me.”
“Some lemonade, maybe?” Edwin said to Estelle, but she shook her head politely.
“I’m fine,” she said. When Edwin left the room, she held the assault rifle out toward me. “How hard is it to hit something like a low-flying plane with something like this?” she asked quietly.
“For me, impossible except by dumb luck. For a marksman who’s in practice, just difficult. But if the shooter’s seriously trying to hit the plane, you do what antiaircraft gunners do. You don’t aim at the plane. You just put a curtain of fire in front of the plane and let him fly into it.”
“Where do you suppose the other seventeen rounds are?” she mused, and then sniffed the barrel. “Not used recently, anyway. Unless it’s been cleaned thoroughly, and it doesn’t smell like that, either.” She leaned the gun back in the cabinet just as Edwin appeared with two mugs.